


my whole life, i've been learning

by Togaki



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (unconventional), Fake/Pretend Relationship, Implied/mild sexual content, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Timeskip, Suna has the emotional intelligence of a walnut, Suna-Centric, Unreliable and emotionally oblivious narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:41:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29177358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Togaki/pseuds/Togaki
Summary: “I waited, ya know. I waited for that call, but it never came. I woke up that morning to ‘Tsumu asking me what we fought about. I didn’t know what to tell him, so I just made up some shit. I’m guessing he never got around to asking ya to corroborate.”Rintarou shifts uncomfortably on the balls of his feet. “You didn’t tell him?”Osamu snorts. “Tell him what? That I asked ya to be my fake boyfriend, when in actuality, I wanted to date the hell outta ya? Like, forrealdating?”
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 57
Kudos: 172
Collections: SunaOsa, SunaOsa Valentine's Exchange





	my whole life, i've been learning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lunarism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunarism/gifts).



> Hi Marty, I hope you like it! 
> 
> Written for the SunaOsa Exchange.

“Why?” is Rintarou’s first response, though a bit delayed. 

Osamu sits in the booth across from him. He’s nonchalant as he swirls around the beer in his tap, looks red and hazy as he blinks up at Rintarou. He’s not drunk—not quite wasted to the point where he can’t control what comes out of his mouth, so it’s hard to push it off as speech slurred by the sadism of Sapporo, though Rintarou wishes he could.

Osamu repeats himself, clear as the cold glass window next to their booth: 

“Be my boyfriend.”

“That’s not what you said before.”

That seems to jostle Osamu’s memory, and he pauses, hesitating. His fingers curl around his glass, tightly then releasing. He rectifies his statement. “Be my _fake_ boyfriend.”

“Why?” Rintarou says again. He doesn’t understand. 

“Won’t you?” is Osamu’s only retort. 

_Won’t you?_ as it echoes through Rintarou’s ears.

There are a million reasons to turn Osamu down. Why him, for one. Rintarou spends more than half the year living in Hiroshima, and when he’s not in Hiroshima practicing or playing games, then he’s in Tokyo with his family. A distant fake-boyfriend is hardly a boyfriend at all. 

Then there’s the why at all. Is it because he wants to compete with Atsumu’s new relationship? He doubts it. All of Atsumu’s relationships tend to crash and burn, before petering out into a mess of tears that Osamu will inevitably have to mop up. It can’t be because of his parents either. Osamu’s parents don’t even mind if he sets the microwave on fire—Osamu hasn’t, but Atsumu has, and that’s why Rintarou knows this specific fact. There’s no way his parents would be pushing for a relationship or marriage.

And if what Osamu wants is a boyfriend, then all he needs to do is walk up to somebody and ask. 

But not to Rintarou. 

“Are ya seeing anybody?” Osamu asks, snapping Rintarou back to this deeply uncomfortable conversation. 

Osamu’s still wearing his restaurant uniform. Earlier, he had taken off the cap, so his hair is messy and ruffled, sticking out in every direction like a bush. It’s cute, in the endearing kind of way. 

Rintarou swallows the acidic taste of alcohol. Maybe _he’s_ the one who’s drunk.

“No,” he says. 

“Are ya secretly straight?” Osamu asks. 

“No.”

“Are ya planning on getting involved in an accident in the next year or two? Cause if so, then I might have to withdraw.”

 _He wants to do this for a year?_ runs through his head.

He wonders where Atsumu and the others are. Drinking in some other part of the bar perhaps. Maybe they’ve gone ahead and left the establishment already. Ginjima couldn’t wait for Osamu’s new restaurant to close so the crew could go celebrate its opening. Booze and karaoke, all things Rintarou could stand less of. He wishes at least one of them would be here; maybe Osamu wouldn’t have asked if someone were. 

“No,” Rintarou says, at last. It’s a breathy release. 

Osamu looks satisfied and swirls his glass with a soft smile on his face. 

But Rintarou still doesn’t understand _why_ . And he still doesn’t understand why he can’t just say _no_ to the _right_ question. 

It should be easy. Like lying down on a Sunday. 

Yet, when Osamu asks him once more to be his fake boyfriend, Rintarou is surprised to find that his answer slips out effortlessly. 

In the spring of when he is 21, he becomes Osamu’s fake boyfriend. 

In the spring of when he is 23, he is still fake dating Osamu. 

\--

Osaka is hot and humid, generally wet, and generally miserable. During off-season, Rintarou spends his days lazing either in the guest room of Osamu’s apartment, or behind the counter at Onigiri Miya, preferably where the air conditioning is cranked to an all-time high courtesy of free reign over the remote control.

For regular customers, it becomes normal to see his face—an otherwise local celebrity in Hiroshima, but here he’s relegated to the title of Osamu’s trophy partner—between the months of April and August. Mostly on the tail-end of the months since he spends the middle chunk with his family about two hours further northeast of Osaka. Regardless, regulars know his name, and they refer to him familiarly. The older women have even nicknamed him “Rin-chi.” 

When Osamu returns through the storefront carrying pails of fish from the market two streets over, he delivers a chaste kiss to Rintarou’s cheek. 

The old women coo; one tinnies and swoons. 

Rintarou ignores the tittering old ladies and helps Osamu bring the pails to the back where both the head chef and assistant chef are preparing party orders. 

It’s a calm, quiet afternoon until Atsumu barges in the front door, demanding to be entertained. 

He frowns. Atsumu frowns back at him, his ugly face mired in disgust. 

Though they’re twins, he’s never understood why Atsumu looks so absolutely abhorrent in his eyes while Osamu looks perfectly fine. Maybe it’s the personality. Maybe it’s the shit swimming in Atsumu’s bowels. 

“God, yer here _again_.” 

Rintarou slumps forward so he can rest his chin in his palm. “Yeah. I’ve been here every day for the past two weeks thanks. Now are you gonna order or are you just going to stand there while the grannies catch flies in their mouths?.”

“You make me look like a goddamn socialite. Why are ya always here? It’s creepy.” 

_True_ , though he’s forlorn to actually agree on something with Atsumu for once. He doesn’t need to be here. He could just kick back relaxing in Osamu’s empty apartment, playing PVPs all day on his computer, and that would be like a dream. But there’s only so many thirteen-year-olds pretending to be twenty that he can stand. Also, it’d be kind of weird to stay in Osamu’s apartment, since he’s freeloading. 

So here he is, helping to man Osamu’s shop when he’s in off-season. Evidently, Atsumu is just as available, or bored, or stuck with no social life, given that there hasn’t been a day Rintarou hasn’t seen Atsumu here since he’s arrived in Osaka. 

“Obviously, it’s to catch you off guard when you and Osamu inevitably have a food fight in the middle of his restaurant. And it will all be because you two can’t agree on whether to go with saffron or pink for our old manager’s baby shower gift in three weeks.” 

“ _What the fuck does that mean_?” is Atsumu’s only response as he repeats the word “saffron” under his breath like he’s adjusting to its taste.

Osamu comes up from behind and wraps an arm around Rintarou’s shoulders, planting a kiss atop his head. 

Rintarou doesn’t even think twice before leaning in when Osamu snakes his hand to his waist. 

Osamu smiles and says, “Ya’d be on my side, right? Be my backup against ‘Tsumu?”

“Leave me out of your dumb fights. I’ve still got bruises from the last time.”

At that, Osamu pouts like he’s crestfallen, as if the thought that Rintarou wouldn’t sacrifice arm and leg for him had never crossed his mind. How optimistic.

Still, he doesn’t like how it looks when Osamu frowns, discounting the fact that it’s the exact same frown he called ugly when it was Atsumu’s face. So he lifts his hand. He thumbs the curve next to the corner of Osamu’s lip and upturns it. It’s comical, but it still looks much better than when he’s frowning. 

Rintarou smiles small. 

In the next second, Osamu’s face indelibly turns red. He’s blushing. 

Atsumu pretends to throw up. “I think I’m losing my lunch here.”

“Then leave, ya dummy. Why are ya still here?”

Realization dawns on Atsumu’s face. Apparently, he has a duty _other_ than annoying Osamu while he’s at work. 

Osamu turns his attention to Atsumu, but he doesn’t move from Rintarou’s touch, letting it stay there, lingering.

It’s only a few seconds later when Osamu glances at him with a grin in his eyes that he realizes he’s still got his finger on Osamu’s mouth. 

_Oh, right_. He pulls back. 

He tunes out the twins’ conversation when a customer comes in; there’s something about “dinner” and “suits” that he picks up on, but for the most part, he’s just focused on calculating what 349 yen times 3 is. 

As he hands back the customer’s change, he feels a slight tug on his shirt. It’s Osamu again. And from the looks of it, it wasn’t even conscious. 

Atsumu notices and pauses mid-sentence in whatever rant he’s delivering to Osamu. Quietly, he studies Rintarou, a cool look of contemplation washing over him. It’s an interesting look on him, a mix of something indeterminable and slightly uncomfortable together. It makes Rintarou hunch in on himself.

Whatever Atsumu gains out of that quick study, he doesn’t share it. Instead, his face softens. He looks at his twin, and not surprisingly, Osamu’s face is just as soft. Except he’s looking at Rintarou. 

Rintarou’s not sure how to break the silence. He feels like he’s entered some alien territory.

Atsumu clears his throat. “Um, so yeah. Don’t forget to pick up yer suit. And please, for the love of god, make sure Suna doesn’t oversleep. _Again_.”

“I’m right here, you know.”

“I will,” Osamu says, assuredly. He’s not looking at Rintarou anymore, but his hand has migrated from his shirt hem to his shoulder. 

Atsumu brandishes one last unascertainable look at Rintarou before he leaves the store, and the doors chime close. 

\--

When they first began this whole farce, Rintarou asked Osamu why he couldn't let Atsumu know. 

Osamu’s reply was blunt but unembellished: “I don’t want him laughing at me.” 

Then he went back to typing up his end-of-the-month report like he hadn’t looked like he’d just been hit by a truck.

Though the idea isn’t entirely farfetched, he doesn’t think Osamu needs to feel wholly insecure with Atsumu knowing. He may laugh once or twice at the idea, sure, but it’s not like Atsumu’s opinion has ever actually mattered to Osamu. But still, he asks. Then after a while of seeing those same gray eyes pool with murky water, Rintarou lets the subject drop. They don’t revisit it. No one else aside from the two of them know the real truth. 

Friends congratulated them, his sister complained endlessly to him, and Atsumu—well, he can’t say he’d like to relive those first few months. Incessant innuendos seem to be the setter’s only language. 

Yet, it all made Rintarou feel as if he were watching a tape recording of himself. After all, it was only a charade. Their friends’ nice words may as well have been air. And soon, whatever Osamu needed this fake relationship for, it’d pass eventually. 

And when Osamu eventually gets a _real_ relationship—not whatever this is—he’ll reserve the same smile and laugh for him as he does now, murmuring quiet congratulations, as he watches him go. 

\--

Balled up like a hamster, Rintarou splays his hands across Osamu’s coffee table while he sits, ass on the ground, facing the blinking television that’s been playing the news for a while. It's a nice white noise. 

He has Osamu’s sherpa blanket draped over his shoulders, comfy and warm, and he’s wearing Osamu’s sweatshirt because all of his things are freshly laundered each day. He had never known raspberry was such a nice detergent scent until, once, he had inhaled deeply and seen Osamu turn a thousand deep shades of maroon. Now whenever he wears his stuff, Rintarou doesn’t hesitate to tease him. 

In the kitchen, Osamu’s making a late dinner for himself. Rintarou stares at him for a few seconds, watching as Osamu easily turns a cordon bleu skillet into something gourmet and luxurious. 

Smushing his cheek into the coffee table, he lets himself melt into putty and then to nothing.

Tomorrow, they’ll be at their old manager’s baby shower presenting an ugly saffron-chic baby stroller with _pink_ sequin embellishments; then the day after that, they’ll go to Osamu’s second cousin’s wedding ceremony in Amagasaki. Then the day _after that_ , Rintarou will be on the first express train to Tokyo, where he’ll spend the majority of June. 

It’s so much happening in so little time. He wants to take everything, stretch it like molasses, and enjoy the view as he chews on something sweet. He never realized how good he had it lounging behind the register downstairs until he was faced with the prospect of babies and meaningful social interaction.

He hears the familiar stutter of the stove switching off. After a few minutes, someone joins him in his painful photosynthesis-to-nothing at the coffee table and bumps him. He scoots over to make room. 

Rintarou edges to the side, but that doesn’t stop Osamu from folding half his leg over Rintarou’s crossed ones. 

As Osamu eats, Rintarou dozes, face down on the table. 

He thinks he’s dreaming a nice dream when he feels Osamu thread fingers through his hair. 

He hums, content. “Mm.”

Osamu keeps threading, and the sensation is wonderful. 

Coming to Osaka feels like coming back home, his second home outside of home, and Osamu makes it better because he babies Rintarou to the point of embarrassment. 

In the back of his mind, there is a part of him that thinks friends don’t do this. Friends don’t make each other breakfast at 5 am, or sleep in each others’ clothes or share soft, intimate touches that make the other feel pampered. But they’ve always been unconventional friends. And if he’s being honest, he has a bit of a soft spot for Osamu. More so than anybody else, he finds himself saying yes to him. Maybe that’s why he had agreed to his ridiculous proposition in the first place. 

It’s probably also why he lets things like pressing tender kisses to the back of his neck pass, even though there’s nobody around to prove it to. 

“Rin,” Osamu says softly. He rubs his hand around Rintarou’s shoulder soothingly, gently. “Yer gonna hurt yer neck, sleeping like that. Go to bed.”

When Rintarou doesn’t shift, Osamu sighs. 

The dishes get pushed aside so that Osamu can lean on his elbow as he shifts his body to face Rintarou. Osamu pets Rintarou’s hair like a puppy. 

“I know yer awake.”  
Rintarou doesn’t respond. Just a slight lift in his chest as he breathes in deeply. 

“Do ya want me to carry ya princess-style again? Or I can do the fireman’s carry.”

Osamu’s done both of them before, and each time, he manages to drop Rintarou before they even make it to the hallway. He doesn’t feel like a repeat performance, but he also doesn’t want to move. 

When it’s clear that Rintarou’s indecision gives way to temptation, Osamu leans over and presses his mouth to Rintarou’s neck. 

He thinks it’s just the same thing again—Osamu feeling touchy—but then he feels a prick, and it _hurts_. 

He yelps. 

He’s up and he’s awake and he’s staring back at a smug-faced Osamu who could go eat roadkill for all he cares. 

He brushes a finger to the back of his neck and feels teeth marks. It stings.

“What the hell, ‘Samu?”

Osamu has the audacity to look innocent. “What?”

Osamu’s lips twitch upward, like he’s fighting off a smile. Rintarou feels the strong urge to wipe that smirk off his face. 

“Forget it, I’m going to bed.”

He moves to stand up, but then Osamu has his arms wrapped around Rintarou’s waist. He slips on the sherpa blanket and, gracefully, gets tugged back into Osamu’s chest. 

Osamu laughs.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” he says, burying his face into Rintarou’s shoulder where his sweatshirt meets bare neck. He breathes in the scent of raspberry. “Ya just wouldn’t _move._ ”

“Shut up, I was getting there,” he grunts. 

“When? Next year?” Osamu teases, squeezing his waist. “Yer like a snail off the court, Rin.” 

And as Osamu laughs again, he looks happy. It’s not like Rintarou ever sees him sad, but it feels like in the past, he’d rarely see Osamu like this: unabashedly and blissfully content. _It’s probably because of his restaurant_ , he thinks. Ever since its opening ceremony, Osamu’s been smiling more, laughing more. But it’s good, it’s nice. He prefers this. 

“Hey,” Rintarou then says, quietly. 

“Hmm?” Osamu lifts his face to look at Rintarou, grinning content. He looks dopey with his smile hanging off like that. 

Uncertainty churns uncomfortably in Rintarou’s stomach. He turns his head and softly, he says, “No marks.” 

Osamu’s grin falters. He stops squeezing Rintarou’s waist so tightly. It’s like someone had fired off a starting gun, and the only thing they’re left with is the stark silence and the cloud of dust, no further sight than the dirt below you.

Eventually, Osamu comes back to him. “Are ya embarrassed?”

“No.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Kind of, but that’s not why.”

Osamu’s silent. Then, “Is it off limits?”

They have spoken limits and unspoken limits. Mostly the latter. Kissing and touching is fine if it’s in public; they both prefer small parties if they have to bring a plus-one, but they’d rather have no party at all if they can help it; photos are fine, switching clothes is fine, sharing food is fine (surprisingly)—though a lot of these bleed into their private life just as much as their public act, so the line often gets blurred there. There’s not a lot of hard no’s in terms of what Rintarou’s comfortable with doing.

But this is one of the spoken limits. They can’t do anything that can’t be taken back.

“Yeah,” Rintarou says eventually. 

The news is still playing on television—it’s set to the lowest volume setting, but now it feels thundering. 

“Oh.”

Osamu lets go of him. He grabs the empty dishes, and brings them back to the kitchen. The faucet turns on. 

Osamu’s elbow deep in suds when he says, “I didn’t mean to make ya upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“Really?” Osamu sounds relieved at first, but then he pinches his brows together, like he’s not sure if he can believe him. 

It would take a lot to make Rintarou upset. There’s not a lot that moves him. A few years ago, his sister thought he was some interdimensional robot from a parallel universe all because he didn’t cry during _The Fault in Our Stars_. He doesn’t get mad much either. It’s easier and more fun to let others get mad on his behalf. Like Osamu. 

Except right now, he wishes he wouldn’t. 

“Really,” he says breathily. He’s not upset. 

He’s just contemplative. 

\--

When they first started “dating,” Atsumu hadn’t believed them. He’d taken one look at the two of them, saw the meter and a half distance between their two bodies, and scoffed. The look on his face was pure condescension. 

Osamu had either reacted poorly or maturely—Rintarou couldn’t ever make up his mind: it’s always between physical violence or verbal assault with those two, and anything other than that is a miracle. In the following seconds after Atsumu scoffed at Osamu’s lame attempt to convince his twin that he has an actual relationship, Osamu delivers his proof in the form of a heated makeout session, courtesy of Rintarou’s unsuspecting but not exactly unwilling partnership. 

It took several shouts of _“oh god fuck”_ and _“somebody please bleach my eyes_ ” before Osamu let go of a dizzy Rintarou with a loud smack on his lips. He looked strangely satisfied, and Rintarou couldn’t stop thinking about how good of a kisser Osamu was, even though he has nothing to compare it to.

Atsumu was _this_ close to torching his eyes out that day. But the objective had been accomplished. Atsumu believed them. 

And while Rintarou was happy to leave it at that, for Osamu, it wasn’t enough:

“We should do PDA,” he says one night as they’ve having dinner at a nearby izakaya. 

Rintarou rolls his eyes. He uses chopsticks to pick at his green peppers. “What? You mean like what we did in front of Atsumu?”

Osamu’s eyes light up at the suggestion. “Would ya?” 

_Would ya_ , as it echoes through Rintarou’s head. He detects a pattern here. 

He swallows thickly. The kiss hadn’t been bad, and it’s not like he has anything against Osamu. But as far as he can tell, this is Osamu’s first relationship, real or not, and it’s a little strange that the man feels so willing to give it all away for free. 

He plucks all of his green peppers and slides them onto Osamu’s plate. The man doesn’t even notice, his eyes are so twinkly and glittery as they look at Rintarou. 

“Maybe not to that extent,” Rintarou says awkwardly. 

“But yer willing?”

“I—er, yeah. I guess.” 

The look on Osamu’s face that night had been absolutely grateful. Or relieved? Happy? He’s not sure. He never bothered to learn Osamu’s emotions until that point, and he’s still trying to keep a journal to this day on the many emotional put-outs of Osamu. 

Slowly, they started holding hands in public, then hugs, then pecks on the cheek, and eventually they grew so comfortable with kissing that they didn’t have to think twice before turning around to meet the others’ lips. And soon, that little habit in public became a comfort in private. 

He wonders if it’s conditioning. Maybe it’s familiarity. Whatever it is, rather than growing out of it, it feels like they just keep falling in deeper. 

He wouldn’t be surprised if one day, when the two have finally called off the charade, he turns around at the exact same time as Osamu, and finds that the mind is easy to adjust but the habit is hard to forget. 

\--

He thinks suits make him look like a watered-down ferret. It’s awkward to move in, and it feels clunky hanging off his body. He prefers sweats, or jeans. Anything casual and laid-back. Not _formal._

It also doesn’t help that it’s early morning, his eyes are dry, and he’s leaning his head on Osamu’s shoulder for support because he’s too damn tired to stand up straight. He wants the comfort of Osamu’s sherpa blanket, or his old ratty sweatshirt from high school; what he doesn’t want is a bunch of Osamu’s relatives flocking to him and to Atsumu because apparently the twins are _infamous_ among their family circle. 

Osamu interacts well enough with his extended family, all nice and civil; Atsumu’s cross between inflating his ego and dishing out verbal taunts to his wilier relatives who think his love life is their business. 

Then Rintarou’s stuck in between them, slumped against Osamu while the older man rubs assuaging circles into his back, letting him know this will be over soon. 

What a fucking lie. 

They’ve been at this for almost an hour, and the ceremony hasn’t even started. The wait is possibly made worse by the fact that he spent nearly nine hours at a baby shower yesterday where the expecting mom wasn’t even there for half of it because she and her husband got caught up in a _Lord of the Rings_ limited-time movie marathon at a nearby cinema. So instead of visiting quickly and leaving quickly, they stayed at the venue making small chat with the mother-in-law (who neither of them knew), and other mutual friends of theirs from high school, until the momma showed up. _Then_ they stayed for another four hours because there was alcohol (not for the expecting mother), and what are old high school friends supposed to do if not drink irresponsibly? 

As a result, he’s tired, he’s hungover, and he’s molting in his suit. 

He hates this. He absolutely hates this. He just wants to go back to bed. 

It’s probably telling at this point because soon, Osamu cuts his conversation off short with his relatives. 

Rintarou opens an eye to see what’s up, but he’s promptly guided by Osamu to the seating area where the ceremony is taking place soon. 

He sits Rintarou down in one of the flowery seats. Osamu brushes a hand across Rintarou’s cheek, and lovingly, he says, “Wait here.”

He watches Osamu stroll down the same aisle the bride would if she were walking up. 

Lost in his hazy thoughts, he snaps out of it when an irritatingly familiar voice joins him. 

Atsumu plops into the seat next to him gracelessly. He’s wearing a shit-eating grin as he waggles his brows at Rintarou. 

They may not be inside of a church, but Rintarou prays to the Lord to give him strength to hold back from wiping that smug smile off his fake boyfriend’s doppelganger. 

“I know what yer thinking.”

“Oh, please, do tell.”

 _Bad move, Rintarou._ It’s never a good idea to ask Atsumu to elaborate on his thoughts. 

Atsumu leans uncomfortably close into his bubble, like a dog that has no sense of boundaries. He grins cheekily.

“So when’re ya gonna ask?”

Rintarou twitches. “Ask what?”

Atsumu frowns. “Don’t play dumb. That shit never looked good on ya even when ya were failing chemistry. I’m talking about you asking ‘Samu to marry ya, ya dipshit.”

He talks about this like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And maybe for a guy whose relationships implode faster than a star on its deathbed, perhaps it is. Wanting a marriage, that is. 

But to Rintarou, it only invites careful ponder—a welcome usher for the impending.

“Has he talked about wanting to get married?” Rintarou asks, curious. 

Atsumu blinks. He thinks about it for a second before settling back in his seat, looking like a deflated puppy. “Well—no. But it’s obvious, ain’t it?”

“Is it?” Rintarou asks. 

He had always wondered if Osamu proposed to fake date in order to assuage whatever worry his parents might feel over having sons with little (if at all any) luck in their love lives. However, he quickly disproved that with the microwave theory. 

Yet, marriage changes things; marriage isn’t something he can or should do with Rintarou.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Atsumu insists, huffy. “Ya’ve been together for a while. And ya obviously love him. So why wouldn’t ya?”

He doesn’t, though. Rintarou doesn’t love Osamu. Of course, it’d be stranger if Atsumu had thought otherwise, since that was the whole point of dating. However, this has all just been a part of Osamu’s waiting game—for what, he doesn’t know. But he’s pretty sure he’s just a means to an end, or else why would Osamu ask him? 

“Ah. Yes. Let’s pander to heteronormativity and the traditional systematic institution of marriage,” he says, deflecting. It's a habit. 

Atsumu shoves him roughly. “ _Fuck_ ya. If ya don’t have a ring, just say so. I just wanted to know so I’d have some juicy gossip. Stop making me question myself!” 

Rintarou rolls his eyes and then makes slow, steady eye contact with him. “Oh, so now I’m just ‘juicy gossip’? Take a good, long look at yourself.”

Tabloids. Tabloids galore. 

Atsumu huffs. He crosses his arms as he kicks up his feet on the chair in front of him. 

“Shut up. That’s different. What else am I supposed to think when you two are going to baby showers and weddings together?” 

“That maybe we’re just two grown men with the unfortunate duty to serve society?”

“Tch.” Atsumu knits his brows together. He scrunches his nose like he smells something rancid. “Maybe yer just blind.” 

There have been a plethora of times Rintarou has considered just calling this whole thing off. Like during the dimly lit FaceTime calls at 3 am in the morning because they’re too far to meet up, or during the 4 hour train rides that one or both of them have to take just to see each other, or during the more intimate moments where Osamu simply takes his hand and and doesn’t let go, for the sheer simplicity of holding onto it. 

Yesterday had been one of those moments. Seeing Osamu seeing what a possible future might look like had made him wonder if saying yes back then had been a stupid decision. Because he knows Osamu would be a good dad, if given the chance. And today, with this wedding. He’d be a good husband. 

He’s not sure what’s holding Osamu back from finding something real. He could have all of that, and more. If only he’d learn to let go of Rintarou. 

The thoughts stew. 

Osamu returns shortly with a glass of water and a plate of food for Rintarou. The ceremony starts in twenty minutes, but Osamu’s never been one for etiquette, especially when it comes to food. 

And as Osamu scoots the two of them in, kicking Atsumu to the curb and gently pushing Rintarou to the now-vacant seat next to him, Osamu takes over his spot and welcomes the head of hair that slumps onto his shoulder like a travel-size neckrest. He chuckles, and the rumbling vibrations tickle Rintarou. 

With practiced ease, Osamu slips his hand into Rintarou’s. He squeezes once, then twice, and Rintarou squeezes back. 

He finds comfort in the gesture, and discovers himself curling in even closer. Even as the ceremony starts, even as the bride and groom share their vows, he doesn’t move. And that’s when he’s struck with a plain, but obvious revelation. 

Oh. _Maybe it’s not Osamu who needs to learn to go,_ Rintarou thinks with a clear mind as he settles against Osamu. Maybe it’s him. 

\--

“Hey, ‘Samu,” Rintarou says one day around the year-mark of their fake relationship. He’s hauling in grocery bags. They’d gone to the store together to pick up ingredients for okonomiyaki because Rintarou had been craving it, and Osamu is nothing if not pampering when it comes to him—something Rintarou picked up early on and never failed to greedily take advantage of. 

Osamu just hums, and he takes off his shoes in the _genkan_. He sets the groceries on the ground as he grabs Rintarou’s shoulder for support, who in turn automatically holds onto Osamu’s waist. When he stands up, there’s a fond look in Osamu’s eyes as he leans in to press a soft kiss to Rintarou’s lips. It’s so easy now, to just do it. 

The kiss lasts longer than it should, and unlike the quick pecks at the store, there’s no audience here. 

“What?” Osamu smiles. 

And it hurts something in Rintarou then. He’s not sure why, but the faint ghost of that grin pressed against his makes him feel like what he’s doing is somehow wrong. 

So he dives in with no preparation, ignoring the strumming thrum in his chest. 

“When are we going to stop?”

“Stop? Stop what?”

“This.” 

This strange relationship of theirs. This strange relationship which starts to feel more comfortable to Rintarou than the one he shares with his own parents. This strange relationship inside Osamu’s apartment for a quarter of the year which starts to feel more like home than his own apartment does. It’s not something meant to last, has never been.

“Huh?” Osamu’s still confused. 

“Break up, I mean,” Rintarou clarifies now, almost stupidly. He forgets sometimes that Osamu can’t read his mind, much as that’d be a nice superpower. 

Osamu stills. His eyes grow wide. 

His voice clambers for strength, but it’s evident that any unlikely bravado has all slipped out. 

“Break up?” Osamu chokes. “I don’t understand. Was it something I did? Are ya unhappy? Rin, why all of a sudden…?”

It shocks Rintarou how disheveled, how distraught Osamu suddenly is. Partially, he thought Osamu would be celebrating. Now, he doesn’t have to freeload one half of his apartment for three months out of the year; now, he doesn’t have to play personal chef to Rintarou in the morning, evening, and late at night when Osamu sneaks into his bed, which Rintarou only accepts if he’s able to coerce the man into making late-night hot chocolate souffle-in-a-cup. 

It’s not like Osamu was with Rintarou because he liked him—he just needed an excuse to say, “Sorry, I’m already taken,” when people happen to ask. 

And like Osamu, Rintarou didn’t say yes because he liked Osamu; he said yes because he couldn’t say no. 

“It’s nothing you did,” Rintarou says. 

“Then why—”

“You said this would happen for a year or two, right?” It’s already been a year. “This fake relationship. Whatever you needed it for, it’s probably over already.”

There’s something about that penny-guilt feeling stuck in your stomach—the same feeling that happens when you let down a teacher, or your dad. Because it’s not that they get angry at you for not doing something right or well, it’s the crippling disappointment that is unerasable as they realize, “Oh, so you didn’t get it, after all.” 

He feels like he’s missing something, he realizes as he looks at the frozen expression on Osamu’s face. It’s like he’s wilting in front of Rintarou even though Rintarou has all the ingredients in his hand to make him bloom. 

To his credit, Osamu reaches for his voice again, and this time, it only cracks imperceptibly. 

“That’s what ya’ve been thinking? This whole time?” 

Rintarou doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get it, and he feels like he’s flailing. 

“Isn’t that what this was all about?”

The groceries grow bad with every second they stand out in the foyer. 

Something murky swirls in Osamu’s eyes. Always, _always_ , Rintarou feels like he misses the landmark and has to return to search blind. 

Eventually, Osamu just nods, lets go of the shoulder Rintarou hadn’t even realized Osamu was holding onto this entire time, and picks up their bags of cold lettuce and stark eggs. 

Rintarou watches Osamu’s back as he shuffles into the tiny kitchen as he starts to put things away. 

“So when?” escapes his lips before he has time to realize that he’s stupid, oh so stupid. 

It’s a lonely whisper that greets him. He doesn’t even get to see what look Osamu has on his face, because the damn wall separates them. 

“Soon.” 

\--

When did it start? Rintarou wonders as he rides the taxi home with Osamu. 

The wedding finished hours ago, and the reception gave him a headache with its loud noise and ample booze, so Osamu hailed an early cab. In the backseat, he stares at Osamu’s serene face, darklit by the cloudy night, at times brightened by the orange glow of traveling through tunnels.

When did it start? 

Was it when they kissed that first month on top of Osamu’s navy-blue duvet, ruined by Rintarou’s craving for hot chocolate and encouraged by Osamu’s incessant insistence that Rintarou should have some sweets because he loves sweets? Or was it six months after that when Osamu wordlessly took Rintarou in his arms and rocked him to sleep as he cried about his mom being hospitalized? 

Then there were the times Rintarou questioned their relationship beyond the year-mark. 

He’d ask when they’d break up, and Osamu would simply nod and push it aside like setting away a meal that tastes just slightly off, slightly rancid. 

“Soon,” he’d say as he opened the car door for Rintarou like a perfect gentleman when they went out on a “date” night. 

“Soon,” he’d say as he fed Rintarou a dumpling across the dining room table like some lovelorn main lead. 

“Soon,” he’d say as he pulled Rintarou in roughly, blinds shut and chairs stacked already at the end of the night inside the restaurant, kissing him madly, hands bunched in his collar, his hair—anywhere he could get a hand on Rintarou—all because he’d had a bad day at work, and Rintarou always seemed to be the cure. 

Over and over again, he’d ask, and time after time, Osamu repeated the same damn thing as if he were a parrot looping back what he’d heard recited in the store. 

The walk upstairs after paying the cabbie is silent. He’d never realized how long four flights up a steep metal staircase could feel like. 

Osamu fiddles with his keys. They _chink_ together, and once he slots the right key in, the door swings open. 

He steps inside; Rintarou follows. 

As soon as the door thuds shut, Rintarou has him by the collar, pushes him against the wall in the _genkan_ , and kisses him like he’s drunk. Osamu’s stiff at first, but immediately becomes pliant as Rintarou grips him by the waist, tugging his body until it lines perfectly against Rintarou’s. 

When it gets hot and heavy, Osamu moans, and he curls his hands behind Rintarou’s neck, fingers tangled in hair. He’s breathless as he murmurs _“Rin”_ like it’s a desperate wish. 

“Fuck.” Rintarou pulls back. He’s stone-faced as he looks at the mess he’s created in Osamu. “You like me.”

It’s not a question. 

Osamu’s lashes blink, like he’s only slowly processing the sentence piece by piece. 

“Huh?” 

_When did it start?_ is the thing that runs through his mind as he searches for his duffel in the apartment—the one he uses when he takes overnight trips during the V. League season. 

Normally, he’d be packing his suitcase right now since he has his train to Tokyo tomorrow morning, but he doesn’t think he can stay in the apartment for that long. So he expedites. He finds loose articles of clothes strewn around his room—the room Osamu always gives him when he stays, the same room Osamu finds himself in a quarter of the time to just cuddle in the same bed with Rintarou—and he feels sick. 

He grabs the bare minimum of his shit, tears off his tie because it’s Osamu’s anyway, and makes it out to the foyer again where his shoes await when Osamu begs him to stay. 

“Wait! Rin, please—”

Rintarou shakes off his hand pitifully. He grabs his shoes and doesn’t even wait to put them on before he walks out the door. He’s in socks as he walks across cold concrete. 

“Rin, just hold on! Let me explain!” Osamu pleads. He chases him out the door.

Osamu catches him by the elbow and there’s terror in his eyes. 

“There’s nothing to explain,” Rintarou says softly, disliking confrontation. Osamu likes him— _has_ liked him for a long time. Maybe since that first month, maybe since he asked Rintarou to be his fake-boyfriend, maybe even before then. 

And he feels so goddamn stupid for not realizing it sooner. 

But Osamu’s steadfast. He refuses to let Rintarou go, as if afraid he might disappear forever. 

“Yes,” he says, “there is. Come back inside and let’s talk.” 

Rintarou doesn’t think he can go back in there. Because then he has to face the crippling realization that yes, Osamu really, truly _does_ like him and hear it come from his own mouth, and then he has to face his own surmounting guilt. And he doesn’t think he can do it. 

He shakes his head numbly. “I can’t.” 

“ _Why_?”

Rintarou looks at Osamu’s hand, desperately clinging onto his own. What had been something naively innocent only twelve hours earlier feels like something far more world-ending now than he’d like to admit. 

He swallows hard. “Give me space, ‘Samu. I’m not going far. Just… give me some time to process.” 

As if these past two goddamn years weren’t enough to process the fact his best friend is in love with him. 

Maybe it’s something in Rintarou’s voice, or maybe it’s the way he flinches imperceptibly when Osamu steps in closer, but Osamu withers. His hand droops, and then it falls back to his side. He can’t look at Rintarou. 

“Where are ya going?”

The shinkansen isn’t traveling at this time of night. The earliest train out is at 4:30 am. He’d have to stay somewhere else. 

Osamu probably asks out of concern. He wouldn’t want to see Rintarou camping it out at some capsule hotel, or in some manga cafe for the night when there’s a perfectly warm bed in his apartment. 

But sadly, Rintarou responds reflexively. 

“Don’t follow me.” 

And, oh, he hadn’t known Osamu’s face could crumble like that—hadn’t known _he_ could do that to him. 

“I’ll just…” Rintarou starts lamely. He can’t talk. He doesn’t remember how. “I’ll just be at your brother’s. I need some time to think about this, this... I’ll call you.” He’s not sure if he will, though. That’s the problem.

“I got it,” Osamu says quietly. It’s a silent resignation. The white flag couldn’t be more painful. “Ya don’t wanna be around me right now. Ya don’t have to keep spelling it out.” Then, with a flash of frailty in his expression, he asks, “How long do ya need?” 

He’s hopeful. He’s hopeful, but he shouldn’t be. 

“I don’t know.”

Osamu nods, solemn. “For what it’s worth, Rin, I’m sorry.”

And as he stands there, head bowed, he looks so small. 

Rintarou doesn’t retort; instead, he just turns in the opposite direction and pretends like the blood isn’t humming loudly in his ears, that his heart isn’t racing terribly as he steps down the staircase, that he isn’t running by the time he makes it out onto the quiet, dead street. 

\--

“Suna?” Atsumu asks, just barely starting to undress from the wedding today when he has to answer the door. “What’re ya—”

“We had a fight,” Rintarou says unceremoniously as he gulps. It wasn’t a fight, not really. For a fight to occur, both parties have to agree it’s a fight. And right now, Rintarou doesn’t believe it’s a fight. He doesn’t fight. “Let me stay here tonight.”

“Oh. Ya guys are capable of fighting?”

Rintarou would think Atsumu’s joking, but sometimes, the man is so stupid that something like this becomes a serious philosophical question. 

He chooses not to respond to Atsumu. Not because he can’t, no. He has a full arsenal of ways to dress down the man. But he doesn’t because he’s tired, he’s frazzled, and he needs to stop looking at the man that near-perfectly mirrors the one he just left. 

So as soon as Atsumu nods, markedly concerned for the middle blocker, he steps aside, and Rintarou enters swiftly and wordlessly. 

Atsumu guides him. 

He takes him through the hallway. It’s a studio apartment, so there’s really not much to go through.

Atsumu sits down on the edge of his bed as Rintarou digs out some clothes to bring into the shower and change into after. He looks at him, a serious expression weaved into nonchalance.

“So which one of ya do I gotta pretend to beat up and which one do I gotta pretend to be a good person to?”  
Rintarou exhales, dropping his clothes. “Me, I think.”

“Well, which one?” Atsumu asks gruffly as he crosses his arms. 

“Both maybe.” 

“Jeez, yer giving me a lot to work with here.” 

It’d be so easy to spill everything to Atsumu at this moment. The guy is a prick, a pompous, arrogant brat on bad days, and an annoying idiot on the good days, yet he’s also one of Rintarou’s closest friends, and one of the people closest to his situation. 

But Atsumu’s also the person who believes wholeheartedly that Rintarou is in love with Osamu—who believes that his baby brother is in a real relationship. 

And Rintarou let him believe that for two years. 

He tears his jacket off and tosses it haphazardly across his bag as he stalks toward the bathroom. 

“Is everything going to be okay with you guys?” Atsumu asks. He wants to say more. He wants to ask what happened. But he doesn’t. And Rintarou’s not sure whether to be grateful, or to collapse. 

“I’m not sure,” Rintarou breathes, pausing. He hopes. But hope doesn’t often lead to a happy ending.

The floorboards creak as he leaves.

He goes to take a hot, scorching shower to forget. 

\--

His first sexual awakening had been at the ripe age of 13. He’d taken one look at the transfer student in his second year junior high class, quietly thought _oh, I’d go for that_ , and immediately realized that love and lust weren’t the same thing. His parents loved each other, or so he thought, and he and his sister loved each other, or so he hoped, but he and this random transfer student he’d met in the summer of his second year would never branch beyond budding friendship, if even that. 

And he was okay with that. It didn’t mean he didn’t still wake up in the middle of the night with the sudden embarrassing need to change his bedsheets, but that was all there was to it. 

Just a guy to help Rintarou cross off a bullet on his list. 

He’d also die before admitting he had ever felt attraction to Atsumu. It was a brief, barely-there scenario, but the fact is that for one split-second, he’d entertained the thought of kissing him and what it would be like to date him back in high school. It was a head-dizzying kind of fantasy, the kind that swept a person off their feet unknowingly. 

That thought quickly deflated, though, as soon as Atsumu opened his big fat mouth. 

But, well, losing that feeling had never been gut-wrenching like in the movies, and he got over it as quick as it came. Just like that transfer student. No harm, no foul. 

If anything, he was probably more upset with the fact that he wasn’t bothered more. 

When he graduated, he and his sister binge-watched all the chick flicks she never got to watch in junior high because they were “banned” under some frantic excuse their mom came up with to keep her virgin eyes pure. But as a high schooler, both her height and her rebelliousness had shot up ten-fold, and Rintarou was enlisted to help her carry out her preferred method of retaliation. Which turned out to be two pails of red bean flavored ice cream, six packs of caramel corn, eight packages of Twizzlers, and more than a dozen films to get through in twenty-four hours. 

She cried during _The Fault in Our Stars_ while Rintarou looked on. 

She bawled during _Titanic_ as Rintarou reached for another box of tissues. 

She was full-on sobbing on Rintarou’s shoulder during _The Notebook_ , and Rintarou figured he would never understand girls. 

She glared at him when she saw he wasn’t affected at all: 

“You’re crazy,” she says as they’re curled up together on the living room couch. She’s a cuddler. She also has snot all over Rintarou’s sweatshirt. 

He sighs and takes a tissue to dab her nose. She blows into it. Her face is puffy and red and not at all pleasant to look at. 

She pinches him harshly when he tells her as much. 

“You know, if you could emote even one-tenth of the characters in these movies, you’d have a boyfriend in no time. Instead, you’re some interdimensional robot from a parallel universe. I don’t know you.” 

Rintarou tosses the used tissue into one of the empty pails of ice cream that they’ve repurposed into a garbage bin.

“Maybe I don’t want one. Have you thought about that?”

“What a waste. You’re handsome—though of course you are, you’re related to me—and I don’t know how, but I suppose you’re _somewhat_ funny if you squint and manage to plug your ears.”

“Funny-looking, you mean.”

She just shrugs, nonchalant.

It’s not like he _hasn’t_ thought about dating before. But he’s not about to string along somebody he doesn’t even love, he tells her. Though, if you ask him, he feels just as shitty either way.

She stares hard at him, like she’s crossed between being angry at him and being thoughtfully curious with him—this is the conundrum with sisters. 

Eventually, she settles for something in between, but all it does is make Rintarou more confused.

“Well, what do you think love is?” 

\--

He imagines love to come slamming through the door. It barrels through remorselessly and without attention to the collateral it collects. It’s loud, it’s heady, and it’s passionate, and it hurts like hell when you let it go.

It’s when Gus and Hazel fly off to Amsterdam because they don’t know when time will decide to run out. 

It’s when Jack and Rose return for each other as the ship is about to sink because they care more for the other than all of their nine lives combined. 

It’s when tired and frustrated and fighting meet in the middle, and it works anyway because that’s how Noah and Allie love each other, and in the end, their love revives Allie’s lucidity. 

He doesn’t think he’ll ever feel that way toward another person. He’s not loud, or heady, or passionate. He doesn’t think he’ll ever cross half a country or another continent for somebody, and he can’t imagine living explosively every day. If he ever loved somebody and got dumped the next day, he’s not sure he would even cry over it.

Love, in Rintarou’s mind, is defined by the things which do not define him. 

It is for this reason why he doesn’t date, and it is for this reason why he is so, so very afraid to be the one to call first. Because love isn’t him. 

\--

But Osamu doesn’t care about any of that. Because he’s the main lead in those cheesy chick flicks his sister loves to watch and sob at, and he barrels through and catches Rintarou’s arm even as he’s unable to fill the role of the main lead’s opposite. 

His face is blank as he looks at Rintarou in the doorway. It’s been weeks since Rintarou took off from his apartment that night, since he ran off and shoved him out of his thoughts like a coward. 

At a loss, he invites him inside. 

His sister doesn’t have her summer break until next week, so she’s living in her off-campus apartment until then. His mom is out on some errands. 

There’s only them, the tense air, and Rintarou’s urge to run. 

Osamu doesn’t let him. 

He offers food, because of course he does. 

“Picked up some tteokbokki from a Korean restaurant near the station. Had some good reviews. Ya like it spicy, don’t ya?”

 _Don’t ya_ , as it rings through Rintarou’s head. 

He can’t hear it, though. It’s all lost in the battlefield of shrill sound and shrapnel as he tries to figure out how to talk. 

He grabs some plates from the cabinets and two mugs from the cupboards.

They eat in silence. 

He wonders if this means his friendship with Osamu is over. The positive side to never falling in love with somebody is never confessing your feelings, therefore never ruining what was supposed to have been a perfectly good relationship. 

Considering they’ve been “fake” dating for two years, he kind of forgot about the fact that it’s not one-way. That _others_ could hurt and be hurt with a simple confession. That things can break without you lifting a finger. 

Osamu sets his chopsticks down. Rintarou mirrors him. Their plates are empty.

Rintarou doesn’t know what to say, not even after they just sat there in silence eating, so Osamu stands up and offers his hand.

“Let’s go for a walk.” 

\--

They go to Shimizudani Park. Rintarou doesn’t hold Osamu’s hand. Instead, he has it shoved inside the pocket of his windbreaker, which, frankly, is something he should have left behind since it’s monsoon season. 

The trees are flush with green leaves, and there’s a crowd of people around tonight, enjoying the view of the pond or at the memorial. He and his sister used to crawl on top of the stones and sneak past the metal bars, only to be harshly scolded by his parents later. Back then, his dad was at home, in between jobs, and sometimes he’d take him and his sister to the convenience store for ice cream. He hasn’t heard from him since the divorce three years ago. 

Looking back, it’d been Osamu who helped him through that. With the transition, with his mom, with figuring shit out even after everything had long passed. 

It’d be so easy to love Miya Osamu. 

It’d also be so easy to see him go. 

Osamu stops at the foot of a thick tree. His gaze stares out far ahead of him, but his eyes are swirled richly, like clouds after the rain. Swallowing, he says, “I waited, ya know. I waited for that call, but it never came. I woke up that morning to ‘Tsumu asking me what we fought about. I didn’t know what to tell him, so I just made up some shit. I’m guessing he never got around to asking ya to corroborate.” 

Rintarou shifts uncomfortably on the balls of his feet. “You didn’t tell him?” 

Osamu snorts. “Tell him what? That I asked ya to be my fake boyfriend, when in actuality, I wanted to date the hell outta ya? Like, for _real_ dating?” 

“But I thought—”

“I like ya, Rin,” Osamu says quietly. He curls his palm tightly in the pocket of his jeans as if holding himself back. “I like ya. That’s all there is to it.” 

_This_ , Rintarou thinks, is probably the moment when Osamu wants to caress Rintarou’s cheek. Like they always do. Did. 

Osamu lets loose a long sigh, and it feels like one he’s been keeping inside for a long time. He looks up at the gray sky. 

“You’re weird, ya know. I kept expecting ya to push me for a reason why, but then ya never did. Ya just went along with the whole charade, no questions asked. I should have been thrilled, but instead I just felt cheated.” 

“I did, though,” Rintarou says. He asked, but he never got a straight answer. But it was Osamu—Osamu, whom he trusted. Osamu, whom he couldn’t say no to. So when it came to pushing, he nudged once before letting his arms fall to the wayside. 

Osamu shakes his head, small, like he’s saying _no, you didn’t_ — _not enough anyways_. He sits down on a stone slab and pats the space next to him. 

Rintarou sits down, about a foot and a half away. 

Smiling lightly, Osamu says, “Thinking back, I wonder if I coulda saved myself a whole lot of grief if I was just straight with ya from the beginning. It all just so felt so _easy_ once I had ya, and at some point along the way, I thought ya finally figured it out and that you not saying anything meant that ya felt the same way, too. But of course ya didn’t figure it out. Because yer you, and yer a little dumb sometimes, but I love that about ya anyway.” 

_Love_ . Not “like,” but _love_. 

“So then why didn’t you?” 

Why didn’t Osamu just ask him out to begin with? Why did he go in such a roundabout way? What was he so scared of?

But the answer is obvious in retrospect. 

Because Osamu was scared of _Rintarou_. 

The expression on Osamu’s face is bittersweet. “I wanted to. But I had a feeling I’d lose ya in more ways than one.”

Probably, maybe. _Likely_ , Rintarou’s mind whispers quietly. 

“I mean, just look at this. It took a whole month and 500 kilometers of distance for us to talk again, and it’s only cause I had yer sister ping me yer address.” 

He’s kind of surprised that Osamu has private messages with his sister, but then again, his sister was the one sobbing and hitting him when she found out only through Instagram that he picked up a boyfriend. He wouldn’t be all that astonished to learn she sneaked into Osamu’s DMs afterward, in a matter of teenage rebellion. 

“I’m sorry” is all he says. 

Osamu laughs derisively at that. He slumps over his knees, hiding, and clasps his hands together like he’s praying. To the gods maybe, to Rintarou maybe. 

“Don’t,” says Osamu. “Don’t do that. Reject me if ya want, be mad at me for lying to ya, but don’t apologize for something I was too scared to own up to.” 

It stings to hear it so plainspoken. Rejection is what’s obvious. It’s two years’ coming, maybe longer, if Osamu’s feelings are any indication. 

But there’s a part of Rintarou, the part where the hurt and comfort lie, that wants to hold onto this—whatever _this_ is. And it _breaks_ him in half. 

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, because it’s a hard thing to let someone down. “I don’t love you.” 

He doesn’t love Osamu. He doesn’t. He doesn’t. 

Osamu nods, forlorn but resigned. He’d seen this outcome from miles away. To him, it must have been something inevitable. Like discovering infinity. 

“Okay. That’s all I needed to hear.” Then he stands as if to leave. 

Rintarou tugs his wrist. “Wait—”

 _Wait_? Wait for what? 

He needs to let go, because that’s what he’s good at. 

He needs to watch Osamu leave, because it’ll hurt far more for Osamu than for him if they prolong this. 

But there’s a little nudge in the back of his mind that says _wait_ and then says _wait for me_.

However, he’s not loud, or heady, or passionate. Even if he misses Osamu after this, the fallout will probably just feel like a small drop—like a penny tossed into a fountain. Quiet. Incidental. 

Before the storm comes the calm, and after the storm, there’s the lull. Too bad he’s never experienced anything more than a sprinkle.

He lets go. 

  
  
  


Osamu doesn’t leave. He crouches in front of Rintarou as he envelops his hands in his own larger ones. He watches Rintarou apologize over and over again. 

For not loving Osamu, for not figuring it out sooner, for not, for not… 

Rintarou says, “I’m sorry.” 

To which Osamu, who’s probably hurting, just says, “I know, dummy. Stop that.” 

“I don’t love you.” 

“I know that, too.” 

Rintarou falls apart, crumpling until there’s nothing left to give. “I don’t,” he says, breathless, “but I could. And that scares me.”

To which Osamu, hugging Rintarou, just says, “I know.” 

\--

Atsumu has a bit of a streak when it comes to his relationships. It’d been bearable back in high school because Atsumu only ever dated one girl and at that point in time, Rintarou’s only obligation to the setter was a bucket of cheap ice cream and maybe a pail of rancid sardines to pull Atsumu’s head out of his washed-up, obnoxious misery. 

That’d been fine. That’d been alright. 

Atsumu post-high-school was a little different. Atsumu post-fake-relationship made Rintarou question his friendship with the man who had even more questionable tastes in masochism. 

Because if getting dumped and getting one’s heart ripped out seven different ways, seven different times, wasn’t masochism, then he’s not sure what was. 

And though high-school Rintarou was able to get away with a catastrophic mix for food poisoning, the Rintarou seven months into his fake relationship with Osamu couldn’t exactly do the same:

“Atsumu, it’s just a sweet potato. Stop looking like you’re about to burst into tears.”

Atsumu does not stop glaring at the sweet potato in the middle of the busy market, but he does wipe furiously at the tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. 

“I’m not,” Atsumu says gruffly. He tosses the sweet potato in the cart. 

“Well, you _were_.” 

Rintarou’s not very good at sympathy, he decides unanimously. Here they are, twenty minutes into shopping, and Rintarou already feels like the bully who conned Atsumu into giving up his lunch money. 

He wishes Osamu were here. Then he could at least let Osamu deal with his sniveling brother. Instead, he went to the seafood section to look for prawns. 

“As much as I love yer sass, Suna, ya could learn to can it.” Atsumu shuffles forward when the lady in front of them moves. He grabs a head of caesar lettuce and nearly chucks it at Rintarou. 

Rintarou would very much like to have a food fight. 

“It’s just one bad relationship, Atsumu,” Rintarou says, instead of giving in to his deep urge to whack Atsumu upside the skull with a bag of carrots. 

Atsumu halts. He turns around, and his eyes are puffy. They’ve been puffy all morning. Since last night. The last five nights. 

“Ya don’t get it,” he says. His face scrunches up, like he’s trying desperately not to cry again, because if he does, then he’s only feeding into Rintarou’s ego. “You and ‘Samu make it look so easy. Ya guys never fight. Ya guys practically got married straight outta high school—”

“At 21—”

“ _Fuck, whatever man._ ”

“And we’re not married,” Rintarou says, suddenly uncomfortable. He’s reminded of the night a few weeks ago, when Osamu held onto him and promised Rintarou he’d look after him, if the worst were to happen to his mom. He pivots. “I don’t understand how you can be so upset. It was two months.”

Two months. Atsumu was in this relationship for two months. And before that, it’d been seven months. Before that, it’d been four. Nine. A year. Two weeks. One month. 

He’d get it if it’d been a year. But this was two months. It’s hardly enough time to get to know anybody. Hardly enough time to feel bad about them leaving. It’s so incidental, it might as well be a speck on the road. 

And yet, Atsumu always manages to look as wrecked as if it’s his first. 

Atsumu plays with a pre-packed box of shiitake mushrooms. 

“Ya don’t get it. It’s not about how long; it’s about how I felt with them, about the way they remind me of cherry blossoms on my windshield every time I look at my car, about what we _could_ have had. It’s about wondering what might have happened if I did things just a little differently.”

“And it’s about missing them to the point of a breakdown in the fresh food section, sure,” Rintarou supplies, filling in the rest. He takes the mushrooms from Atsumu and tosses it into the cart. They’re blocking the aisle. He maneuvers them aside. “Fuck. You’re sniffling again. Are you still thinking about them?”

“Yeah, I am, ya prick,” Atsumu says, wiping his nose. Then he blinks, at a loss. “Is it weird that I miss them, even though they left me first?”

“No.” And this time, the answer is genuine.

It’s normal. It’s expected. Atsumu loves, and he loves wholeheartedly, and he loves volatilely. Of course he misses them. It’d be weirder not to. 

Sometimes, Rintarou wonders if he’s the weird one. For being so unmoved by failed loves. 

As Atsumu sneaks some green onions into the cart, Rintarou says, “You’re fine, you know. Things don’t work out, and that’s okay. And it’s okay if you wanna cry about it. Preferably it’ll be to your brother next time, but I don’t mind listening either, I guess. I _am_ your friend, after all. I’m stuck with you. But you’re not weird for feeling this way. You’re not.”

There’s something about seeing your converse image that makes you pause and wonder. For Atsumu, it’s Rintarou; and for Rintarou, it’s Atsumu. The way Atsumu is so open with emotions while Rintarou lets them well up in a container that will never be opened. The way Atsumu can stand straight one day and be proud and then crumple the next. He wishes he could at least say he was envious, but he can’t even scrape up that.

Bravely, Atsumu huffs out a laugh. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Yer being serious?”

“I’m surprised at the shit that just came out of my mouth, too.”

“Sap’s not a good look on ya.”

“Great. Because it’s also atrocious on you.”

There’s a kick to the cart, and it’s at least somewhat deserved. Rintarou just shrugs. 

“Ya know,” Atsumu says, and there’s a faint chink of vulnerability in his voice. It’s different from before. Before, he’d been hardened, defensive, mourning; this is different. He’s bittersweet. “Sometimes I wish I had what ya and ‘Samu have. Ya guys seem so put together. Like, it’s steady; it’s reliable. Ya’ve got a good thing going, as much as I make fun of ya fer it.” 

Then he jogs forward, avoiding the onslaught of rush-hour mothers, and he heads to the seafood section where Osamu waits for both of them, leaving Rintarou behind in silent wonder as he stares after the converse.

\--

Osamu’s apartment is exactly as he remembers it, down to even the sweet raspberry scent of Osamu’s sweatshirts and the feathery warmth of his sherpa blanket. He doesn’t know what he was expecting. That maybe Osamu would completely upturn his life because of Rintarou’s rejection, or that he would at least get rid of the mug Rintarou always uses whenever he stays with Osamu. But he didn’t. He kept all of it. And maybe it means that Osamu had felt confident, or maybe it means that Osamu is as big of a sap as his brother, so he has a hard time letting go as well. 

Either way, Rintarou still has to ask. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Osamu sets Rintarou’s bags down on the ground of the foyer and opens his arms. 

Like a scared animal, Rintarou moves forward slowly, warily. When he’s within a breath’s reach of Osamu, he wraps his arms around the other’s torso. Osamu pulls him in close. He tucks his face in the crook in Rintarou’s neck, breathing him in. 

Osamu’s lips press against Rintarou’s skin softly as he murmurs, “I didn’t think I’d get another chance to do this.”

“Idiot,” Rintarou breathes back, and he claws his fingers in the fabric of Osamu’s sweatshirt, like he’s desperate to hold on. Like he’s desperate to make sure this is real. 

Osamu cups his hand around Rintarou’s cheek as he pulls back, hand still firm at the base of Rintarou’s head. He leans in, his lips tantalizingly close to Rintarou’s. 

But he stops. He doesn’t go any further. His eyes shimmer with glee, with uncertainty, and another, deeper emotion, which Rintarou has only recently begun to identify in his haphazard notes on the man in front of him. 

“Are _you_ sure?” Osamu asks, eyes flicking down to Rintarou’s mouth.  
Rintarou’s heart is in his throat, and he feels the sweaty clamminess of Osamu’s hands as they grip onto him, begging _please_. _Please tell me this is real._

He meant it when he said he could fall in love with Osamu. He meant it when he said he was afraid. 

But even if fear strickens him, even if guilt wrenches him, he wants to at least try. 

“Yeah,” he says, shuddering. He noses Osamu’s cheek tentatively. That answer is enough for Osamu to pull him down, sinking, wading in that blissful drowning feeling. “I think so.”

\--

When Rintarou was 22 and his sister was 19, she had been in a long on/off relationship with somebody from high school. It was always the same story: they kiss, they fight, they break up, and before the month is over, they get back together. In the end, Rintarou buys more caramel corn and red bean flavored ice cream than is doctor recommended, before then being surreptitiously replaced by the boyfriend who crawls back to their front door with peony flowers in hand.

The boyfriend had a touch for romance, at least. 

His sister didn’t seem to think so:

She has her head laid across his lap as they’re sitting on the couch watching TV when she says, with finality this time, “I’m not taking him back.”

Rintarou pretends not to hear. It’s an aural hallucination, he tells himself. Or she’s just talking to herself. She makes a habit of doing that. 

But both assertions are laid to rest when she pinches him in the inner thigh and he yelps. 

“Did you even hear me?” his sister interrogates. 

“Yep, nope.” Rintarou tries not to squeal with pain. 

“Well, which is it?” she says briskly. 

He sighs. “Yeah, I heard you.” He rests a hand on her head. She likes being petted. “But are you _sure_? I’m pretty certain you’ve said that, like, the past four times?” 

Realistically, this was approaching her sixth break-up with the same guy in less than three years. 

“I’m serious,” she says, stern. She harrumphs as she turns her head away from him. Then, softer: “I like bickering, but fighting all the time… I get exhausted. You know, I think I’m just exhausted of love right now.”

His expression melts. “Hey, don’t say that.” 

His mother got trampled by love; Rintarou was incapable of love; his sister couldn’t be exhausted by love—not when she, more than anyone else, deserved to love and to be loved. 

“But it’s true,” she says wistfully. Her shoulders relax, and she slumps forward in her little fetal position in Rintarou’s lap. She hums. “If I could have someone like you, Rin-nii, that’d be great.”

He tucks a bit of her hair behind her ear. “If I remember correctly, aren’t _you_ the one that questioned whether I was some robot from a parallel universe because I lacked emotions?”

She slaps his knees. “Quiet, you.” Rintarou snorts down a huff. She continues. “That might have been true back then, but honestly… my opinions are always privy to getting overturned.”

“Meaning?”

“It means that I could be wrong. That you—” she pauses, then cringes like she can’t believe she’s saying something so embarrassing—“well, you’re fine just the way you are.”

If things were that simple, he’d have felt confident in his skin a long time ago. 

He stops petting her hair. Curiously, she turns to look at him. She sits up. 

“I don’t know about that,” he says quietly. Love doesn’t come easy; it’s not like what everyone says it is. 

“Don’t you?” she asks. 

_Don’t you_? as it rings through his head. Right. It’s ironic. She’s basing her answer off of Osamu. 

“To be honest, I don’t know why Osamu even chose me. He deserves better.” 

He deserves someone who loves him, he whispers quietly to her. Someone who will love him right. Not a fake love. Not a temporal love. Not a love that leaves no splinters once you rip it away. 

He’s still waiting for that day when Osamu will call it quits. The day Rintarou will feel a little lighter, breathe a little easier, because he won’t have to hold onto the weight anymore. 

His sister studies him, a mute, indeterminable wave crashing in her eyes. 

She wraps her arms around her legs, tugs her knees in close, and says, “There’s nothing wrong with how you love, you know. Slow, fast; deeply, faintly; loudly, quietly. There are different kinds of love. Not everyone is like _The Notebook_. You don’t have to force yourself to be anything. Isn’t that what’s great about love? It’s indefinable.” 

\--

Rintarou watches as Osamu slices chicken meat in the kitchen. He’s draped in his favorite sherpa blanket while sitting in front of the television, and life feels warm as he looks up with droopy eyes. 

It feels surreal. To be here, to have Osamu here, for _Rintarou_ to be in this picture. 

Earlier, they’d gone to the grocery store together to buy ingredients, and when they were stopped by a lady who asked if they were a couple, Osamu looked at Rintarou fondly, and pulled him in for a side-hug. He had blushed and kissed him there on the cheek, and Rintarou had felt the unexplainable urge to chase after it. 

On the way home, he asked again: 

“Are you sure?” Rintarou carried half of their groceries. Osamu carried the other half.

“I’m sure.”

For the past few weeks, this is how they’ve carried on.

Rintarou would ask, and Osamu would answer. Sometimes Osamu asked, and Rintarou’s response was always the same: “I think so.” And for the time, it seems to satisfy him. 

Dropping the blanket, Rintarou makes his way to the kitchen. He wraps his arms around Osamu from behind as the man plops the chicken slices into fry oil. 

He presses his lips to the back of Osamu’s neck as he murmurs, “Are you sure?”

Is Osamu still sure about this? He’s always able to back out if it becomes too much. It would ease Rintarou’s conscious, knowing that Osamu let this go first. 

Because it’s hard to date. It’s hard to love with no guarantee that the other person will ever feel the same way, and knowing that they know that. 

But Osamu just smiles. He presses a hand to the arm that curls around his front while the other hand flips meat over using chopsticks. 

“If ya keep asking me that, my feelings are gonna be hurt.”

“This is to _prevent_ your feelings from being hurt,” Rintarou mumbles. He buries his face in Osamu’s back. “Idiot.”

“What _will_ hurt is if I fumble my chopsticks and we get hot oil on both of us.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re my shield.”

“Prick.”

“Stingy.”

Osamu laughs. “Would a stingy man be feeding ya dinner right now?”

At that, Rintarou pouts. So much for displaying some propriety. Not that he ever possessed much to begin with. 

He needles the sides of Osamu’s waist with his bony fingers, and in a fit of laughter, Osamu spins around, chopsticks and all. 

He lifts up on his toes to press a kiss to Rintarou’s cheek, and when Rintarou leans into that, Osamu goes in for the lips. A deep kiss. 

His hands roam through Rintarou’s hair, and the chopsticks he swung around earlier press against the counter top to be forgotten. He purrs softly when Rintarou bites on his lower lip. 

Their kisses—not in a million years—have ever come close to anything like this. 

Osamu’s hands migrate down, and soon he has Rintarou’s collar bunched in one hand, keeping him locked, while the other snakes underneath his shirt, dancing atop his bare back.

The chicken bubbles in the oil.

Breathless, Rintarou pulls back, surprise in his eyes, and asks, “Now? Are you sure?”

Osamu stills. His eyes flicker for a second, then he caresses Rintarou’s cheek with the back of his hand. His lips quirk into a faint smile as if assuaging Rintarou. “Yeah. No better time. Is that okay?”

He hears the familiar stutter of the stovetop as Osamu turns it off. His brain is already overwhelmed by Osamu’s faint touches, his sweet scent, and the voice that pulls him forward. 

“Yeah.”

\--

When Rintarou wakes up, the sun has dipped below the horizon. It’s dark in the room—Osamu’s room, because Rintarou still makes a habit of sleeping in the guest bedroom—and when he peels his eyes open, feeling gross and sticky, Osamu has a pensive look on his face. 

Rintarou wraps an arm around Osamu’s shoulder, lifting the bedsheets higher around his bare skin, and the man tucks himself in closer, stealing his body heat. 

“Hey,” Rintarou whispers. His throat is dry. “You okay?”

“No,” Osamu says. His voice is hoarse. 

“Do you want some water?” 

“No,” comes the same dried-up and fragile timbre. 

He’s afraid of a third “no.” 

Faintly, thanks to the dim-lit street light pouring in through lines in the blinds, he sees faded tear-streaks down Osamu’s face. He pales. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Stop,” Osamu says, shaking his head. 

Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe this was all some giant build-up to the worst thing he could have possibly done.

He feels something wet, and there’s the quiet shudder accompanied by a fresh flow of tears. 

He freezes. 

“Fuck. Say _something_ ,” Osamu says, wrenching his hands to wipe at his face. It’s too late; the tears won’t stop flowing. He’s a mess. “Dammit. This isn’t how… ugh. Say something, you— God, yer so _awkward_!”

“What?” 

“Shit,” Osamu says, sobs muffled a little quieter into Rintarou’s chest. Rintarou just pats him lightly on the back, as if he’s a child. “Ya stupid, emotionally debilitated, fucking flower boy—fuck, I can’t even talk.”

“‘Samu,” Rintarou says, sitting up. He’s scared. This is all because of him. “Tell me, what’s wrong?”

“ _Nothing_ !” Then, sniffling, Osamu collapses back into the pillows, forearms shielding his face. “ _Everything_ ,” he continues lamely. “ _Fuck._ It’s not… It’s not what ya think it is.”

Unable to say anything else, Rintarou just says, “I’m sorry—”

“Stop. I don’t want ya to say that.” 

Then what _is_ Rintarou supposed to say? This is all new to him. He feels like he’s flailing; he doesn’t want Osamu to feel like shit, but anything that comes out of his mouth will probably make things worse. 

“I don’t know what to do.”

Osamu’s chest lifts, and he breathes in deeply like he’s steeling himself. “I know ya don’t. Ya never do. _I_ don’t even know why I’m here crying like a baby.” 

“Don’t you?” Rintarou asks, and the words seem to resonate with something within Osamu as his eyes widen. “‘Samu, something’s wrong. Help me here.”

And maybe it was the fright in Rintarou’s voice, or maybe it was because Osamu had truly come to the end of his tether, but like a dam, Osamu’s walls break down slowly, then gushing, and he can’t help but tremble with emotion. 

“I told myself upfront that I’d probably end up regretting it, that I was being stupid for chasing after something that never wanted to be chased in the first place. But then when ya said yes and we kept going, I just…” 

He lets loose a splintery breath, and it rakes through his entire body. His eyes are glossy as they stare at the ceiling. 

“I was willing to take scraps, even,” Osamu croaks. “Even if all I had was a ghost of you, or a fake you, I would take it. And it was so, _so_ dumb. Am I happy? I think I am. But I’m confused. And I don’t know why, but this hurts. And it sucks. And I can hear yer brain fizzling from here, because yer so damn anxious that yer making _me_ nervous.”

Somberly, Rintarou says, “I didn’t realize.” 

He’s a fool if he thinks he could ever match the depth of Osamu’s feelings, much as he wants to try. And Osamu’s right. He _is_ dumb. What idiot would do all of that for Rintarou? 

“Ya weren’t meant to,” Osamu says, scathingly. “Ya were just supposed to be oblivious like ya always are, but then I went and fucked it up by crying. God, I’m _still_ crying. This is terrible.”

So as Osamu sniffles miserably, Rintarou reaches over and grabs a tissue from the box. He holds it to his nose, and he blows. The used napkin goes in the bin. 

He gazes down at this man—this beautiful, grief-stricken, and lovelorn man—and he hurts. 

What could he have done differently? Any number of things, really. Could’ve said no, could’ve called it quits earlier, could’ve… could’ve… 

Could he have though? _Would_ he have? 

He thinks about how nice it is to curl a finger around the flap of Osamu’s jacket in the grocery store when he wants his attention; he thinks about the inexplicable warmth that fills his chest when he sees rolling wheat fields on his long train rides between tournaments; he thinks about how, even though Osamu really ought to be mad at him, he still reserves a humorless smile for Rintarou when he accidentally buys all the drinks at the vending machine because he forgets which one Osamu likes. 

That there are things he cherishes, that he prizes, with what little time he’s spent with the man, that in a rush, he understands there is no “could” or “would.” 

He realizes, then, that he has no real answer, because it’s an accumulation of events. 

And then he thinks, _ah, so this is ‘indefinable_.’ 

“I never meant to take advantage of you,” Rintarou says. He threads his fingers in the blanket pooling in his lap, looking down. 

“ _Like I said,_ that’s not—”

“No,” Rintarou says, shaking his head. “Sorry. That didn’t come off right. What I meant was that I hurt you. And maybe it was unknowingly, and maybe you were prepared for it, but I did. _Please_ at least agree to that.

“‘Samu, I… I like the way you say my name. I like the way you’re kind and nag at me sometimes. And I like the way you make me feel. 

“I’m scared,” he admits, head hanging low. “I don’t know if one day this will all evaporate, and I don’t know how I’ll feel on that day. I want to love you. I do. I promise I’ll get there. One day. And I know that it hurts you right now when I’ve got nothing to show for it, but still. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll do my best to make you happy. I want to be here as long as you’ll have me for. Is that… Is that okay?”

Through wet eyes, Osamu looks at him. Gray eyes, calming eyes—eyes that bore nothing but affection for Rintarou all these years against the odds. Then he blinks, and his expression breaks as he shudders all over again, this time with unfettered emotion. He takes Rintarou’s hands and cups it in his. 

“I can’t believe the most unromantic guy just said the most romantic thing ever.”

“I don’t understand your standards.” 

Osamu laughs. It’s caught in his throat thanks to the tears, but it’s lighter, softer. “Hell if I understand them either.” Then he pulls Rintarou down, touching him. Touching his face, touching his hair, touching his lips. “Is this even real?” he whispers, a tendril of awe, like he still can’t wrap his mind around it. 

Rintarou sighs sweetly into his touch. “Does it matter if it’s real? We’re here now, aren’t we?” 

And maybe it’s not the right answer, but Osamu cries and pulls him close anyway, until he’s pressed chest to chest on top of him, hands locked in hands in the bedsheets, and the muffled sounds of grunts, sobs, and creaks play again. Through it all, Osamu just keeps whispering, “I love ya, Rin. I love ya,” like a prayer on his lips. 

To which Rintarou, heart filling and heart brimming, just says, “I know. I know.”

One day, he’ll have the words to say it back. 

\--

Rintarou’s 21, and he’s just taken his third shot at the loud and busy bar. Music blares through muffled speakers, and hoards of groups crowd the standing tables. Osamu’s on his left, draining bottles as if he _doesn’t_ have to turn in for work at 5 am tomorrow following his grand opening ceremony today, and on his right is Gin, who’s stuck listening to Atsumu ramble about his latest date, pink flowers bursting around him like he’s been taken straight out of a manga panel. 

If this were any other night, he would probably take his soggy napkin and fling it across Atsumu’s face to get him to quiet down, but tonight, he’s oddly sober. 

There’s something to be blessed, seeing someone so in the throes of love and happiness, and it squeezes Rintarou’s heart. He’s not envious, he doesn’t think, but there’s nothing wrong with admiring the fortune of others. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

It’s during times like this, when the noise is deafening and the cooling somber of Sapporo starts to settle in, that he wonders. Wonders quietly.

Falling, loving, wanting. 

Osamu glances over and eyes him quietly, the beer in his tap is going fast. His face is flushed red, and there’s a tiny quirk of a smile on his lips. He says something to Rintarou—or maybe he shouts it, because the counter is loud; either way, it makes Rintarou laugh—and then he takes his hand. They split off from the group as Ginjima throws out the idea of karaoke for the hell of it, and that’s Rintarou’s cue to escape.

They slip between patrons, weaving through the thick pool of bodies, and Rintarou can’t help but wonder as the fingers around his curl a little tighter, squeeze a little harder. They’re warm, and he feels like he’s floating as he’s towed along.

And he thinks to himself, _if this could be love._

Then Osamu turns, mouth wide open in a nagging retort, and Rintarou catches the sparkle in his eyes, and he thinks,

 _I would love_ you.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my beloved friend and favorite person who I tend to freak out to more often than I should. Brandi, you probably barely understood any of what was happening while reading this over for me, but if anybody had to introduce you to SunaOsa (and really HQ in general), it really _shouldn’t_ have been me. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/togaki_tana)  
> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/togaki-kun)


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